“Then in that case,” said Mr. McGonnell, “we gratefully adopt your lordship’s suggestion and make the application now.”
“Very well,” the judge rejoined, “then the order will be made, subject to the consent of the Home Secretary, which we may assume will be given.”
As he concluded, he glanced at Anstey, but, as the latter remained seated, and no re-examination followed, Mr. Pippet was released from the witness-box.
Of the rest of the evidence I have but a dim recollection. The sudden entry, like a whiff of fresh air, into this fog of surmise and rumour, of a promise of real, undeniable evidence, made the testimony of the remaining witnesses appear like mere trifling. There was an architect and surveyor who described and produced plans of the old Earl’s underground chambers; and there was an aged woman whose grandfather had been a potman at the “Fox and Grapes” and who gave a vague account of the strange rumours of which she had heard him speak. But it was all very shadowy and unreal. It merely left us speculating as to whether the story of the bogus funeral might or might not possibly be true. And the speculation was not worth while when we should presently be looking into the open coffin and able to settle the question definitely, yes or no.
I think everyone was relieved when the sitting came to an end and the further hearing was adjourned until the result of the exhumation should be made known.
CHAPTER X
Josiah?
The last resting-place—real or fictitious—of the late Josiah Pippet was a somewhat dismal spot. Not that it mattered. The landscape qualities of a burial ground cannot be of much concern to the inmates. And in Josiah’s day, when he came here prospecting for an eligible freehold, the aspect of the place was doubtless very different. Then it must have been a rural burial ground adjoining some vanished hamlet (it was designated on the Ordnance map “Garwell Burial Ground”) hard by the Romford Turnpike Road. Now, it was a little grimy wilderness, fronting on a narrow street, flanked by decaying stable-yards and cart sheds, and apparently utterly neglected and forgotten of men. The only means of access was a rusty iron gate, set in the six-foot enclosing wall, and at that gate Thorndyke and I arrived a full half-hour before the appointed time, having walked thither from the nearest station—Maryland Point on the Great Eastern. But early as we were, we were not early enough from Thorndyke’s point of view; for, not only did we find the rusty gate unlocked (with a brand-new key sticking out of the corroded lock), but, when we lifted the decayed latch and entered, we discovered two men in the very act of wrenching open the door of a vault.
“This,” said Thorndyke, regarding the two men with a disapproving eye, “ought not to have been done until everyone was present and the unopened door had been inspected.”
“Well,” I said, consolingly, “it will save time.”
“No doubt,” he admitted. “But that is not what we are here for.” We approached the operators, one of whom appeared to be a locksmith and the other an official of some kind, to whom, at his request, we gave our names and explained our business.
“I expect,” said Thorndyke, “you had your work cut out, getting that door unlocked.”
“It was a bit of a job, sir,” the locksmith replied. “Locks is like men. Gets a bit stiff in the joints after eighty years. But it wasn’t as bad as I’d expected. I’d got a good strong skeleton key filed up and a tommy to turn it with; and when I’d run in a drop of paraffin and oil, she twisted round all right.”
As he was speaking, I looked around me. The burial ground was roughly square in shape, enclosed on three sides by a six-foot brick wall, while the fourth side was occupied by a range of the so-called vaults; which were not, strictly speaking, vaults at all, but sepulchral chambers above ground. There were six of them, each provided with its own door, and over each door was a stone tablet on which was inscribed brief particulars of the inmates. Josiah alone had a chamber all to himself, and, running my eye along the row of tablets and reading the dates, I noted that he appeared to be the last of the tenants. At this moment, the sound of a motor car in the street outside caused us to step back to bring the gate within view; when, to my surprise—but not, apparently, to Thorndyke’s—our old friend, Mr. Superintendent Miller, was seen entering. As he approached and greeted us, I exclaimed:
“This is an unexpected pleasure, Miller. What brings you here? I didn’t know that the police were interested in this case.”
“They are not,” he replied. “I am here on instructions from the Home Office just to see that the formalities are complied with. That is all. But it is a quaint business. What are we going to find in that coffin, Doctor?”
“That,” replied Thorndyke, “is an open question, at present.”
“I know,” said Miller. “But I expect you have considered the probabilities. What do you say? Bones or lead?”
“Well, as a mere estimate of probabilities,” replied Thorndyke, “I should say lead.”
“Should you really!” I exclaimed in astonishment. “I would have wagered fifty to one on a body. The whole story of the bogus funeral sounded to me like ‘sheer bunk,’ as Pippet would express it.”
“That would certainly have been my view,” said Miller, “but I expect we are both wrong. We usually are when we disagree with the Doctor. And there does seem to be a hint of something queer about that inscription. ‘Josiah Pippet, died on the 12th day of October, 1843, aged 49 years, 2 months and 3 days.’ If he was so blooming particular to a day, why couldn’t he have just given the date of his birth and have done with it?”
While we had been talking, the official and his assistant had produced two pairs of coffin trestles, which they set up side by side opposite the open door of the vault; and they had hardly been placed in position when the sound of two cars drawing up almost at the same moment announced the arrival of the rest of the party.
“My eye!” exclaimed Miller, as the visitors filed in and the official—beadle, or whatever he was—advanced to meet them and lock the gate after them; “it’s a regular congregation.”
It did look a large party. First there was Mr. Pippet with his sister and daughter and his solicitor and Mr. McGonnell; and then followed Mrs. Engleheart and her son with Mr. Brodribb. But, once inside the burial ground, the two groups tended to coalesce while mutual greetings were exchanged, and then to sort themselves out. The two elder ladies decided to wait at a distance while “the horrid business” was in progress, and the rest of us gathered round the half-open door, the two young people drawing together and seeming, as I thought, to be on uncommonly amicable terms.
“I leave the conduct of this affair in your hands, Thorndyke,” said Mr. Brodribb, casting a wistful glance at the two ladies, who had retired to the farther side of the enclosure. “Is there anything that you want to do before the coffin is removed?”
“I should like, as a mere formality, to inspect the interior of the vault,” was the reply; “and perhaps the Superintendent, as a disinterested witness, might also take a glance at it.”
As he spoke, he looked inquiringly at Mr. Gimbler, and the latter, accepting the suggestion, advanced with him and Miller and threw the door wide open. There was nothing very sensational to see. The little chamber was crossed by a thick stone shelf on which rested the coffin. The latter had a very unattractive appearance, the dark, damp oak—from which every vestige of varnish had disappeared—being covered with patches of thick, green mildew and greasy-looking stains, over which was a mantle of impalpably fine grey dust. A layer of similar dust covered the shelf, the floor and every horizontal surface, but nowhere was there the faintest sign of its having been disturbed. On coffin and shelf and floor it presented a perfectly smooth, unbroken surface.
“Well, Doctor,” said Miller, when he had cast a quick, searching glance round the chamber, “are you satisfied? Looks all right.”
“Yes,” replied Thorndyke. “But we will just take a sample or two of the dust for reference, if necessary.”
As he spoke, he produced from his pock
ets a penknife and two of the inevitable seed-envelopes which he always carried about him. With the former he scraped up a little heap of dust on the coffin lid and shovelled it into one envelope, and then took another sample from the shelf; a proceeding which was observed with a sour smile by Mr. Gimber and with delighted amusement by the Superintendent.
“Nothing left to chance, you notice,” chuckled the latter. “Thomas a Didymus was a credulous man compared with the Doctor. Shall we have the coffin out now?”
As Thorndyke assented, the beadle and his assistant approached and drew the coffin forward on the shelf. Then they lifted the projecting end, but forthwith set it down again and stood gazing at it blankly.
“Moses!” exclaimed the locksmith. “He don’t seem to have lost much weight in eighty years! This is a four-man job.”
Thereupon, Miller and I stepped forward, and, as the two men lifted the foot end of the coffin, we took the weight of the other end; and as we staggered to the trestles with our ponderous burden, Miller whispered to me:
“What’s the betting now, Dr. Jervis?”
“There may be a lead shell,” I suggested, but without much conviction. However, there was no use in speculating, seeing that the locksmith had already produced a screw-driver from his tool-bag and was preparing to set to work. As he began, I watched him with some interest, expecting that the screw would be rusted in immovably. But he was a skilful workman and managed the extraction with very little difficulty, though the screw, when at last he got it out and laid it on the coffin lid, was thickly encrusted with rust. Thorndyke picked it up, and, having looked it over, handed it to Miller with the whispered injunction:
“Take charge of the screws, Miller. They may have to be put in evidence.”
The Superintendent made no comment, though I could see that he was a little puzzled; as also was I, for there appeared to be nothing unusual or significant in the appearance of the screw. And I think the transaction was observed—with some disfavour—by Mr. Gimbler, though he took no notice, but kept a watchful and suspicious eye on Thorndyke; who, during the extraction of the other screws, occupied himself with an exhaustive examination of the exterior of the coffin, including the blackened brass name-plate (the fastening-screws of which he inspected through a lens) and the brass handles and their fastenings.
At length the last of the eight screws was extracted—and pocketed by Miller—and the locksmith, inserting his screw-driver between the lid and the side, looked round as if waiting for the word. We all gathered round, making space, however, for Mr. Pippet, his daughter and Mr. Giles.
“Now,” said Mr. Pippet, “we are going to get the answer to the riddle. Up with her.”
The locksmith gave a single wrench and the lid rose. He lifted it clear and laid it on the other trestles, and we all craned forward and peered into the coffin. And then, at the first glance, we had the answer. For what we saw was an untidy bundle of mouldy sacking. We could not see what the bundle contained; but it certainly did not contain the late Josiah Pippet.
The excitement now reached its climax and found expression in low-toned, inarticulate murmurs, in the midst of which Mr. Pippet’s calm, matter-of-fact voice was heard directing the locksmith to “get that bundle open and let’s see what’s inside.” Accordingly, with much tugging at the unsavoury sacking, the bundle was laid open and its contents exposed to the light of day—a small roll of whitened sheet lead and four hemispherical lumps of the same metal, apparently the remainders from a plumber’s melting-pot.
For some moments there was a complete silence as nine pairs of fascinated eyes remained riveted on the objects that reposed on the bottom of the coffin. It was broken, not quite harmoniously, by the voice of Mr. Gimbler.
“A roll of sheet lead and some plumber’s oddments.”
As he spoke, he turned, with a fat, wrinkly and rather offensive smile to Mr. Giles Engleheart.
“Yes,” the latter agreed, “it fits the description to a T.” He held out his hand to Mr. Pippet and continued: “It’s heads up for you, sir. I congratulate you on a fair win, and I wish you a long life to enjoy what you have won.”
“Thank you, Giles,” said Mr. Pippet, shaking his hand warmly. “I am glad to have your congratulations first—even if they should turn out premature. We mustn’t be too previous, you know.”
He spoke in a singularly calm, unemotional tone, without a trace of triumph or even satisfaction. Indeed, I could not but be impressed (and considerably surprised) by the total absence of any sign of elation on the part either of the claimant or his daughter. It might have been simply good manners and regard for the defeated rival. But it looked uncommonly like indifference. Moreover, I could not but notice that, in the midst of the congratulations, Mr. Pippet was keeping an attentive eye on Thorndyke; and, indeed, my colleague’s proceedings soon began to attract more general notice.
When the leaden objects were first disclosed, he had viewed them impassively with what had almost looked like a glance of recognition. They were, in fact, as I knew, exactly what he had expected to see. But after a general, searching glance, he proceeded to a closer inspection. First, he lifted out the roll of sheet lead, and, having looked it over, critically, laid it on the coffin-lid. Then he turned his attention to the “oddments,” of which there was one appreciably larger than the other three, having apparently come from a bigger melting-pot. This mass, which looked like the half of a metallic Dutch cheese, he lifted out first, and, in spite of its great weight, he seemed to handle it without any difficulty as he turned it about to examine its various parts. When he had inspected it all over, he laid it on the coffin-lid beside the roll of sheet lead, and then, dipping into the coffin once more, took up one of the smaller “remainders.”
And it was at this moment that I became aware that “something had happened.” How I knew it, I can hardly say, for Thorndyke was a perfectly impossible subject for a thought-reader. But my long association with him enabled me to detect subtle shades of expression that were perceptible to no one else. And something of the kind I had seen now. As he lifted the lump of lead, he had checked for a moment and seemed to stiffen, and a sudden intensity of attention had flashed into his eyes, to vanish in an instant, leaving his face as immobile and impassive as a mask of stone.
What could it be? I could only watch and wait for developments. As he turned the mass of lead over in his hands and pored over every inch of its surface, I caught the twinkling eye of Superintendent Miller and a low chuckle of appreciative amusement.
“Nothing taken for granted, you observe,” he murmured.
But the others were less indulgent. As Thorndyke laid the last of the leaden pot-leavings on the coffin-lid, Mr. McGonnell interposed, a little stiffly.
“Is there anything more, Dr. Thorndyke? Because, if not, as we seem to have done what we came here to do, I suggest that we may consider the business as finished.”
“That is,” said Mr. Pippet, “if Dr. Thorndyke is satisfied. Are you satisfied, Doctor?”
“No,” replied Thorndyke. “I am not satisfied with this lead. It purports to have been placed here in 1843, and part of it—the sheet lead—was then old. It was said to have been old roofing-sheet. Now, I am not satisfied that this lead is of that age. This sheet lead looks to me like modern milled lead.”
“And how do you propose to settle that question?” McGonnell asked.
“I propose that an assay of the lead should be made to determine, if possible, its age.”
McGonnell snorted. “This is Thomas Didymus, with a vengeance,” he exclaimed. “But I submit that it is mere hair-splitting; and I don’t believe that any assayist could give an opinion as to the age of the lead, or that the court would pay any attention to him if he did. What do you say, Gimbler?”
Mr. Gimbler smiled his queer, fat, wrinkly smile, to the entire extinction of his little blue eyes, and swung his eyeglasses on their ribbon like a pendulum.
“I say,” he replied, oracularly, “that the proposal is ina
dmissible for several reasons. First, the objection is frivolous. We came here to find out whether this coffin contained a body or some lumps of lead. We find that it contained lead. Now Dr. Thorndyke doubts whether it is the original lead. He thinks it may be some other lead of a later vintage. But if it is, how came it here? What does he suggest?”
“I suggest nothing,” said Thorndyke. “My function in this case is the purely scientific one of ascertaining facts.”
“Still,” persisted Gimbler, “there is a suggestion implied in the objection. But I let that pass. Next, I assert that an assay would not produce any evidence that the court would take seriously. The proposed proceeding is merely vexatious and obstructive. It would occasion delay and increase the costs to no useful purpose. And, finally, the order of the court does not authorize us to make an assay of the lead. It merely authorizes us to open the coffin and ascertain whether it contains a body. We have done that and we find that it does not contain a body.”
Here Mr. Brodribb, who had been showing signs of increasing discomfort, intervened in the discussion.
“I am inclined, Thorndyke,” said he, “to agree with Mr. Gimbler. Your proposal to make an assay of the lead does seem to go beyond the powers conferred by the judge’s order. Of course, if it is necessary, we could make a special application. But is it necessary? Do you say definitely that this lead is not of the age that it is assumed to be?”
“No,” replied Thorndyke, “I do not. I merely say that I am not satisfied that it is.”
“Then,” said Brodribb, “I suggest that we waive the question of the assay, at least for the present. I should much prefer to do so, especially as there is no denying that your proposal does imply certain suggestions which should not be lightly made.”
Thorndyke reflected for a few moments, and I waited curiously for his decision. Finally, he rejoined:
“Very well, Brodribb; I will not press the matter against your sense of the legal proprieties. We will waive the assay—at any rate, for the present.”
The Third R. Austin Freeman Megapack Page 147
